Under a Pole Star

by Stef Penney

  Chapter 45

  Siorapaluk, 77˚47’N, 70˚38’W

  September 1897

  The air smells of saltwater and root fires. The sand on the beach is a warm, pinkish white – a crescent curving out into the bay. The bare hills rise steeply, pockmarked and crimson. The water, a sheet of tarnished silver. Across the bay, dark cliffs, scored and wrinkled, their gullies highlighted by the sun; overhead, a pale sky – all mirrored in the stillness. To the east, at the head of the fjord, the white tongue of a glacier protrudes into the water. It looks inviting – such a gentle slope – a broad highway beckoning her into the interior. Above the cliffs – above even the circling, crying dovekies that speckle the pure sky – like a sleeping giant, always the line of white – winter in abeyance: the ice.

  The air is as clear as gin, and plays tricks – it turns a white Arctic hare into a polar bear, a black turd into a seal. Flora can make out the contours on a rock, miles away; she has the sense she could reach over and pick it up. Beneath the skin of her kayak, the sea moves like the flank of an animal. Slicing the surface with her paddle, careful not to trouble the stillness, she spins her unstable craft around in a circle. Now she is facing the village of Siorapaluk – ‘pretty little sandy beach’ – with its drunken sod-and-stone houses and their own wooden hut, awkward in its right-angled newness. A dog fight breaks out behind someone’s house: a volley of sharp barks, a shrill yelp. Silence again. Juniper smoke stains the air, and, in the north, she notices a faint darkness above the horizon. This calm will not last.

  Sighing with mingled delight and regret – that she is here, that she cannot stay here in the boat, all day, sliding through the water as easily as a fish or a seal – she steers herself lazily towards the shore. A figure on the beach ambles towards her, and she gets her smile ready. Although she is at the edge of the world, her kayak, out on the water, is the only place she can be alone.

  She runs the kayak on to the sand and struggles gracelessly out of the boat. Gilbert Ashbee is a few yards away. When she is on her feet, he says, with the amusement in his voice she has come to detest, ‘Mrs Athlone, allow me . . .’

  ‘No need, Mr Ashbee . . .’

  Flora is quite capable of picking up the kayak, and begins to do so, but he strides towards her and plucks it out of her hands. The only way she could prevent him is by a physical tussle.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, as if she meant him to do so all along.

  ‘Did you have fun?’ he asks politely. He has an unerring sense for the thing that will most irritate at any given moment. She cannot believe it is accidental.

  ‘I am becoming more proficient.’

  They walk up to the hut and, despite Ashbee’s presence, Flora feels her heart toll with delight and the thrill of ownership. Every annoyance, every hardship, every sacrifice is worth this: to have come back.

  They are all proud of their base – a prefabricated wooden building of a design chosen by Flora, who did not see why a hut built for the Arctic should be cold or cramped. Admittedly, it is not large: inside it measures thirty feet by eighteen. At one end is a tiny room, Flora’s private domain, containing bunk, desk and chair. The internal walls are of boxes that act as shelves. Her bunk is inspired by the maritime model: a structure with the bed at the top, a desk underneath and lockers that fit snugly below that. There is enough room to bring in the bathtub. There is a tiny window and a door, which can be bolted from the inside – not that she has discovered any need to do so.

  The main room has three more bunks ranged along the walls. Rails are rigged from the ceiling, and from these hang blankets so that each man can draw himself, when he has had his fill of his companions, into a nominally private space. The stove is ducted around the hut so that, by the time it reaches the outside, all warmth is spent. Next to the stove is the table, and, at the other end of the hut, another room serves as laboratory and darkroom. The whole structure is, in effect, a hut within a hut – the outer shell forms an enveloping lean-to corridor, where stores are stacked. The main entrance is to the south-east; they turn a corner to enter the inner hut by a door on the north side, by which time – the thinking goes – most of the cold will have been left behind. On three sides, the corridor is full height, but the fourth is lower, to allow daylight in through four high-set windows, facing south-west, over the fjord.

  The most unusual part of the structure is the tiny hut perched at the north-west corner, by the second entrance door: a makeshift lavatory, positioned over a stream. In winter, when the stream freezes, they will build a snow hut, and let the dogs clean it out. To the villagers, the convenience is a source of hilarious fascination; they are used to squatting on the beach, protected only by their sense of discretion. Flora did the same when she was a child; it is one of the freedoms (not the most precious) that growing up has stolen from her.

  Flora is delighted with the hut. She loves the golden brown of its raw planks. She loves the neatness of the joinery and the dull blue-black of the stove. She loves the patterns of frost that build up, inaccessibly, on the inside of the outer glass panes (and which, thereafter, will never entirely disappear). She delights in the painstaking ingenuity on display all around them. It is solid and functional and clever – perfectly without history.

  Flora knows every family in Siorapaluk, and there are old friends among them – Simiak and Apilah, Meqro, Tateraq, Pualana. Not Aniguin. Since his return from America, Aniguin lives up the coast, at Neqi. A month ago, when Flora and the others disembarked, they learnt that two Americans – white-haired de Beyn and another man – had set up a base there, and that they had already left on a trip over the inland ice. It was late in the season to attempt such a journey.

  Flora is usually too busy or tired to think about this, but as the sun loses power and the days become shorter, she feels a deep-lying concern. Towards the end of September, Aniguin visits for the first time, and brings news that no one wanted to hear: the Americans have not returned, and autumn storms have begun.

  Perhaps it is this that casts a pall over their reunion. Or it is that, when she first saw him, she expressed sympathy for Ivalu’s death, and he looked away, as though bored. Flora knew it was not done to name the dead, or even refer to them, but to ignore her death completely was impossible.

  Over supper, Flora tries to forget her worries and be happy that she is finally seeing her friend again, but every question she asks is overshadowed by the ghosts of the dead, or by the ghostly presence of Jakob. Aniguin tells them how de Beyn helped with the museum, with the hospital, with the farm where he lived over the winter . . .

  Flora becomes depressed, and as the evening wears on, irritated. America seems to have changed him; he was always a subtle youth, but he was tactful, too. Either he has lost that perceptiveness, or he does not care that she is silent as he boasts of the many rich women who told him what a fine fellow he was, never mentioning his dead wife at all, as though she never existed.

  As he talks, he barely looks at her – as though she doesn’t exist either. She remembers her fear that she might not see him again. This awkwardness, her discomfort, his changed attitude, make that fear seem foolish.

  .

  The wind has got up – sudden gusts slam against the walls like blows – winds from the east: from the ice cap. The steel shutters rattle continually. During one vicious gust, when the shutters make a frenzied, high-pitched whirring, Flora snaps, ‘God, Ralph, we must stop that infernal din. I can’t hear myself think.’

  Everyone looks surprised. Ralph jumps up immediately. ‘I’ll go and have a look. The wind must be coming from just that angle . . .’

  ‘Oh, you can wait until morning; I didn’t mean . . .’ But he has gone. She is embarrassed. She smiles at the others. ‘I didn’t mean him to go outside in this . . .’

  Ashbee pushes back his chair. ‘I’ll go and help. He could probably use a hand.’

  He goes, leaving Flor
a feeling worse than ever. She has to be so careful not to diminish her status in their eyes. She helps Aniguin to more stew.

  ‘Did the Americans go in the same direction as the trip they made before, with Armitage?’

  ‘Ieh. They wanted to go north, to the big cliff. If they don’t find game up there, they will die.’

  Flora smiles quickly. ‘They found game before. Who is with them?’

  ‘Metek went again, and your brother, Sorqaq. He’s young. He needs to prove himself. I expect, if he comes back, he will work for you too.’

  Flora freezes, and feels the puzzled stare of Henry Haddo turn towards her. He says, ‘Why does he call this man your brother? Is it a term of friendship?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Under the table, Flora crushes her napkin in her hands. ‘It can mean many things. There are all sorts of adoptions here, and a child can be allied to another family, and is known as someone else’s “son” as well as his own father’s. Aniguin was adopted by Apilah and Simiak after his parents died . . .’

  Haddo nods, diligently filing away information.

  ‘What Fellora says is true,’ says Aniguin, ‘but I say Sorqaq is her brother because her father, Mackie, kujappok many times with Asarpaka. Everybody knows this.’

  He laughs. Haddo looks down. Flora keeps her face utterly still. She has heard this rumour before, more than once, but always managed to hold the thing at arm’s length, without deciding whether or not it is true (she has never, of course, asked her father about it). But no one has brought it up in such a coarse way, in front of a member of her expedition.

  ‘Such things are normal here.’ Aniguin is addressing Haddo. ‘Many children are both kallunat and Inuit. Is it not so, Fellora?’

  Flora attempts to smile in Haddo’s direction, without meeting his eye.

  ‘It has happened, but not everybody does it.’

  ‘Not you, Fellora.’

  She manages to laugh. ‘I’m a woman, and I have a husband.’

  ‘But a husband who is ill. Who cannot give you children. You should take another husband – one who is strong.’

  ‘Dr Haddo’ – Flora reaches for the seal stew – ‘can I help you to a little more?’

  ‘Thank you. It’s very tasty.’ Haddo drops his voice. ‘I think he is announcing his candidacy, Mrs Athlone.’

  Haddo smiles at her in a way that unites them in the face of Aniguin’s boorishness. Flora feels a wave of gratitude.

  ‘Men all do it – Armitay, Te Peyn, Mackie – they all kujappok here.’ He smiles at Haddo. ‘We will find a nice fat girl for you!’

  The door opens with a blast of frigid air, and Ashbee and Ralph come back in, their faces red with cold.

  ‘How’s that?’

  Ashbee claps his hands together, pleased with himself. Flora stares, cannot think for a moment what he is talking about, then realises that the whirring of the shutter has stopped.

  The next morning, they wake to find the water in the fjord changed. The first signs are subtle; something indefinable is off, somewhere. The sea becomes matte and still, or it heaves like the flank of a great grey mammal. Then the sea’s ally, the wind, gets up; a swell pushes in from the sound and the skin of ice is mashed into insignificance by the sea’s greater power. The choppy water looks dark and powerful. But the cold comes back – a stealthy opponent, tireless – under cover of night. The sea is stilled once again. A milky belt of ice rings the coast, on which meadows of frost flowers spring up one morning, only to disappear, washed away, the next. But it comes back, and comes back; the ice thickens as October wears on, it turns white and begins to beckon: Come – while there is still daylight! . . . But it is heavy and waterlogged; it sags beneath the body’s weight, is not to be trusted.

  .

  Halfway through the month, the cry of ‘Qamiut! Sledges!’ goes up. It has been a raw, overcast day; mist lies heavy on the hilltops. There is one sled, rounding the ice foot from the north. It pulls up in a cacophony of barking as the dogs of Siorapaluk greet their kin. One fur-clad figure steps off the back of the sled. Under the fur hood, his eyebrows are white with frost. It is Tateraq, Flora’s childhood friend. His feet and legs have been soaked and frozen; his bearskin trousers are as hard as wood. He went through the ice three times on the journey from Neqi. The dogs saved his life. This is nothing remarkable.

  ‘Has something happened? Have the Americans returned?’

  Enjoying his importance as the bearer of news, Tateraq takes his time as they ply him with food and tea. At last, he says that all have returned, alive, from their journey on the inland ice. But the kallunat need a doctor. They suffered for their foolishness – as everyone told them they would. Tateraq has a note.

  ‘Do you have some of that nice, piss-coloured paste? Ieh, that stuff . . .’ He scoops a dollop of apricot jam on to a chunk of seal.

  Flora opens the crumpled, greasy envelope, and turns away from the others to read it. It is addressed to Mrs Athlone, and deeply regrets the necessity, but asks for the services of her doctor, as they need treatment for frostbite. It is signed Jakob de Beyn, but the handwriting is unrecognisable.

  ‘Of course, we must go,’ she says to Haddo, with a glance up at the frost-grey windows. Outside, the sky has darkened.

  ‘Tateraq, tell me how you left them?’

  ‘They are hungry and exhausted, and the kallunat have frostbite.’ He indicates his face, hands and feet.

  ‘Were they walking?’

  ‘They were walking. But the spirits got them up there; they look like dead men.’

  Neqi, 77˚52’N, 71˚37’W

  They arrive in a soft, amorphous twilight. Without guides, they would have had no idea where they were – the horizon invisible, the cliffs swallowed by fog. Neqi crouches on a sliver of land under high cliffs, exposed to the winds off Smith Sound. Under dark cloud, it is cheerless and unwelcoming.

  The Americans’ home is the same hut she came to five years ago, much weathered and rebuilt. When Flora knocks on the door – with trepidation, but she had to come – it is opened by Ainineq, with a smile of welcome. Flora and Haddo are dazzled by the lamplight, then Flora sees two scarecrows sitting at the table with bandaged hands and feet, and blackened faces. Her first, shocked, thought is that Jakob is not here – and then she realises that one of the scarecrows has grey hair. Like his companion, he is very thin, and his face is blistered, with red-rimmed, hollowed eyes. Their state renders them frightening: outcast lepers, mendicants returned from a place of dreadful privation. She stares (no, she should not have come), aware that no one has yet spoken. Jakob struggles to his feet.

  ‘Please, don’t get up,’ says Flora, finding both his appearance and his initial look of shocked hostility intensely painful.

  ‘Mrs Athlone, how nice to see you again. It’s very good of you both to come. This is Mr Welbourne; Mrs Athlone, whom I met on my last trip here. Forgive us for not shaking hands . . .’

  He raises bandaged hands, untidy and stained. Flora shakes her head.

  ‘Very happy indeed to see you, ma’am. I’ve heard so much about you.’ Welbourne’s voice is deep and melodious; his accent tickles her ear. ‘I’m sorry not to stand . . .’

  ‘Oh, please, good heavens . . .’ She is slightly hysterical at the general politeness. ‘This is Dr Haddo.’

  ‘Mrs Athlone,’ says Jakob. ‘I apologise for taking up your time, and for bringing you both here in such weather. Mr Welbourne and I apprec­iate your promptitude.’ He attempts a smile, but his face is too raw to respond. Even his voice seems cracked.

  ‘There’s no need to apologise, Mr de Beyn. None at all. I’m glad we can be of help. When we knew you were out on the ice cap so late, we were concerned . . .’

  Haddo unpacks his medical bag. Welbourne says, ‘You must see to Mr de Beyn first – he is worse afflicted than I.’

  ‘All right. Stay there
, under the light, Mr de Beyn. Perhaps we could have some boiled water?’ Haddo turns to Flora.

  She nods with relief, asks Ainineq to set about some hot food, then occupies herself with heating water and scrubbing the surface of the table, glad to have an occupation. She has thought of this meeting many times, tried to armour herself against it, but it is worse, even, than she imagined.

  Haddo sits in front of Jakob, unwrapping his hands, which are swollen with frost blisters, the fingertips blackened, skin peeling off.

  Flora turns with a firm smile to Welbourne, whose overgrown hair and beard cannot entirely disguise the handsome features and bright blue eyes beneath. She begins to unwrap the bandages from his hands.

  ‘Are you a nurse, then, Mrs Athlone, along with your many other qualifications?’

  ‘No, but I have experience of frostbite. You can’t spend much time here without gaining that.’

  She turns his hands carefully. They are raw, but seem not badly affected. She kneels on the floor and begins uncovering his feet.

  ‘My goodness . . .’ He laughs. ‘I apologise for the state of them. They’re not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.’

  She has seen worse, although the middle toes are blackened and nailless. She bends forward to sniff them. Welbourne manages to laugh; she admires his spirit.

  ‘Your reputation for courage is well deserved, ma’am.’

  He has great confidence – the air of one who would be at ease in any situation. Jakob, on the other hand, keeps his eyes downcast, and is silent.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any necrosis.’ She gathers up the stained bandages. ‘Dr Haddo will examine them. Then we’ll need to debride the dead tissue.’

  ‘I look forward to it. Thank you, ma’am.’